Love you..." Henry-" Always..." Oh God oh God-" World enough..." No!" And time..." Henry!

That's what alcoholics do. It's in their job description: fall apart and then keep falling apart.

I wish for a moment that time would lift me out of this day, and into some more benign one. But then I feel guilty for wanting to avoid the sadness; dead people need us to remember them, even if it eats us, even if all we can do is say "I'm sorry" until it is as meaningless air.

You can still be cool when you’re dead. In fact, it’s much easier, because you aren’t getting old and fat and losing your hair.

The pain has left but I know that it has not gone far, that it is sulking somewhere in a corner or under the bed and it will jump out when I least expect it.

we both smile and we are conspirators.

It comes out so quietly that I have to ask her to repeat it: “It’s just that I thought maybe you were married to me.